


Not Enough

by Sia



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Warden has her Calling.  Part of the Zevran BSN Thread Christmas Gift Exchange 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Enough

Thirty years. Three decades at her side. Thirty winters, summers, falls and springs.

He was greedy. They were not enough.

His hands could still feel her smooth skin, the perfection marred by the scars of battle and roughened by the extremes of weather. The former assassin tightened his fingers into fists to hold onto the feeling and turned on his side in their bed, the memories flooding his imagination. He could almost taste her on his tongue. Her hot, sweet saltiness, the smell of leather and metal that clung to her skin like perfume. Her nipples pebbling under his thumbs as he caressed them and made her writhe beneath him, calling out his name. His name in her voice was the most beautiful sound the Maker had ever given him. The sweat and the warmth and the beautiful ecstasy as she sheathed him within her, her muscles gripping him until he cried out his release against her shoulder.

Gone.

The clash of blades in the practice yard. Standing back to back, fighting darkspawn, bandits, insane cultists, Abominations. Waking up next to her, the sun glinting on her shining hair. Sitting across from her at mealtime, laughing at some joke, or smart remark. Sitting next to her in camp, crouched on a deadfall, her thigh and hips tight against his. Knowing that where he left off she began. Knowing that she would always have his back. Knowing that she would always be there. Knowing that she was his and he was hers.

Gone.

Three decades of fighting and loving and living took its toll on them. He was no longer quite as fast. She was no longer quite as graceful. Her skin was beginning to loose some of its firmness and lines were appearing around her eyes and mouth. His hair was going to gray, a few joints ached in the morning when they didn’t used to. But she was there with that smile that was only for him. And it didn’t matter, the signs of aging were only milestones in their lives together. Living markers of their journey at one another's side.

Last night had been the final time. They had only fallen asleep when exhaustion claimed them. He’d tried to convince her to stay, to ignore it. “It’s a Grey Warden’s destiny,” she’d said.

“And when do you care about destiny?” he’d demanded before wrenching another moan from her glorious throat with his long, deft fingers.

“When I become a danger to you,” she’d gasped and took him in her own calloused hands, causing his own gasp and his hips to buck as she knew exactly where to touch him to wrench a response from him. Their bodies moved together eagerly, passionately, familiarly. That simple ache of long companionship coming to an end.

Gone.

She’d refused, of course, to let him see her off. “There are no good-byes, my assassin, my Zev. Don’t think of where I’m going. Think of only where we’ve been.” Her lips pressed against his, insistently, her tongue entwining with his, his head reeling. The Maker’s joke, that he’d given the lowly assassin, the slave boy, the whoreson, such a woman and then taken her away far too soon.

He balled his fingers in her pillow. Thirty years. It was not enough.

But neither would one hundred years be enough. The Deep Roads called her. He’d followed her since she’d freed him from the Crows. In this he could do no less. He left their bed and packed his belongings. The Deep Roads did not call him, but she did.


End file.
